


Dead of Winter

by SydneyMo



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Mission Fic, Mutual Pining, Napoleon Solo Ships Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Some Fluff, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-04-07 05:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14073414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyMo/pseuds/SydneyMo
Summary: When an anonymous tip intimates the placement of a dirty bomb somewhere in Europe, UNCLE must go undercover and work hand-in-hand with MI6 to save the western world. But tensions begin to rise when confidential agency secrets are leaked by an unknown mole, and a charming British agent shows more interest in Gaby than the assignment at hand. With the clock ticking, UNCLE may be facing their hardest mission yet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to the wonderful Diadema who not only beta-ed this story for me but offered an amazing amount of moral support when I was struggling to find the right words. This story has been in the works for quite some time, and it was only because of her kindness that I'm able to publish it. You are a saint and have my immense gratitude!

“Come on, Gabs, work to do!”

Gaby glanced up from her paperwork to see Solo leaning one shoulder against her filing cabinet, a Cheshire-cat grin splitting his face.

“You’re oddly cheerful for Monday morning,” Gaby quipped, eyeing her partner with sisterly suspicion. “What do you need?”

“Waverly wants to see us right away.”

“Do you know what for?” she asked, standing and stretching her arms out in front of her.

Solo shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’m off to go get Peril; I’m sure he’s down in the gym somewhere beating up some poor, American-made punching bag.” 

Gaby snorted at the visual, stepping around her desk to follow Solo down the line of cubicles. UNCLE had been together for over a year now, much to the surprise of the original three members. Waverly had planned to keep the team together only through the mission in Istanbul, but their success had gained the attention and admiration of other global intelligence agencies. Before long, UNCLE had expanded to include spies from over two-dozen countries and had set up shop in an unsuspecting office building in London where Waverly, who could barely contain his excitement, was placed in charge of the budding agency. 

“Waverly wants all three of us?” Gaby asked, eyebrows furrowing. “We aren’t supposed to leave for Cambodia for another two weeks.”

“I don’t think this is about Cambodia, Gabs,” Solo admitted, his smile faltering a fraction. “I think there’s something big going on. Or, at least,” he pushed the down button to call the elevator to their floor, “something big is about to happen.”

Gaby hummed, brushing her bangs out of her face. “It must be important to interrupt Illya’s gym time.” The ‘gym’ was hardly more than an over-glorified conference room. It had stood empty for weeks until Illya's grumblings finally prompted Waverly to send him and Solo out the door with an agency-approved credit card and instructions to “find _something_ to help Kuyakin take the edge off”. Since then, Illya had worked hard to convert the tiny space into a training room where he spent most afternoons working sore muscles and sparring with new agents.

Solo let out a low whistle, breaking into Gaby’s reverie. Two female agents passed the elevator lobby giggling and whispering to each other, catching the American’s eye.

“Actually, would you mind--”

“I’ll get Illya,” Gaby said, rolling her eyes. Solo winked at her, trailing after the women with a spring in his step.

Ten minutes later, Solo was seated outside Waverly’s office in a makeshift waiting room, his feet resting casually on a small coffee table when Gaby reappeared, Illya in tow. Waverly was on an important phone call, his personal secretary informed them. Would they care for coffee in the meantime? The agents politely declined.

“In that case,” she said, smiling, “Mr. Waverly will be with you shortly.”

“Cowboy,” Illya nodded at Solo, seating himself next to Gaby on a leather divan. Solo nodded back, his eyes flitting to the secretary’s swaying hips as she walked away. Gaby couldn’t suppress an exasperated noise but unknowingly mimicked him as she glanced at Illya out of the corner of her eye. He was clothed in a grey sweat suit, his face flushed a pleasant pink that only served to bring out the blue of his eyes. He caught her staring and quirked an eyebrow, his lips twitching in a half-suppressed smile.

“So,” Solo started, tearing his gaze away from the seated secretary to look at his partners. “What do you suppose--” 

He stopped in surprise when Gaby leaned forward, knocking his feet off the coffee table and yanking on his charcoal black tie, to bring him towards her.

“I don’t think Waverly would appreciate evidence of your escapades, Solo. Not that rumors don’t already fly,” Gaby chastised. She wiped her thumb against the underside of Solo’s chin where traces of bright, pink lipstick betrayed his most recent rendezvous. Illya snorted and handed her a tissue from the end table beside him.

“Rumors, Teller?” Solo asked, snatching the Kleenex from her grasp to clean his chin and collar. He waggled his eyebrows suggestively before sitting back in his seat. “You’ve read my dossier, have you not? They’re not so much rumors as reports of my successful conquests.”

“So you admit you’ve had unsuccessful ones?”

“Only by comparison.”

“’Pathological womanizer’ does not do you justice,” Illya interjected, his arms folded across his chest.

“The point is,” Solo flicked the used tissue in Illya’s direction, grinning when it bounced off his bicep and into Gaby’s lap, “Waverly knew who I was when he brought me on. I aim to meet expectations.”

“You could try exceeding them once in a while, Agent Solo.” The three turned to see Waverly standing beside his office door, a small smile on his face. “You missed a spot, by the way. Just there under your ear.” 

Solo stood and sheepishly plucked the tissue from Gaby’s lap, wiping around his ears and coloring slightly.

“Please—,” Waverly stepped aside and gestured inside his office, “come in, and do have a seat.” His secretary scurried around her desk to hold open the door for the agents before closing it softly behind them.

The UNCLE agents looked at one another and then at the off-white leather settee across from Waverly’s desk. It was too big to be an armchair and yet calling it a sofa would be an insult to craftsmen everywhere. Gaby, shrugging, sat first, followed by Solo on her left and finally Illya squeezing in on her right. Waverly suppressed a smile at the sight of three grown adults, all trained in the art of espionage, two of whom well over six feet tall, squished together like small children. _His_ small children. He couldn’t help but feel paternal towards the three, especially when they looked as they did now. With a roll of his shoulders, Waverly sat down in his chair. There was work to be done.

“Recently, an issue has come to light that requires agents of your caliber to get involved. It is dangerous, possibly more so than the Vinciguerra affair, but I have no doubt you can handle it.” 

He paused, shuffling the papers on his desk.

“No need for the preamble, sir,” Solo interrupted, “Tell us what we’re up against.”

“Yes, well,” Waverly raised his eyebrows, then cleared his throat to continue. “MI6 received an anonymous tip about three months ago intimating that King Industries, a chemical engineering company developing a new fertilizer-pesticide hybrid, has been using state funds for purposes other than their research. Normally, this wouldn’t fall under our jurisdiction, but according to the tip King Industries federal grants are being run through the former accounts of our dear friends, the Vinciguerras’.”

“We’re trusting anonymous tip?” Illya asked suspiciously. Waverly cleared his throat again.

“It’s no longer anonymous, Kuryakin.,” Waverly handed them three manila files, the word CLASSIFIED emblazoned in red ink over the UNCLE logo. “We traced the phone call to a flower shop. Lorena King’s flower shop, to be specific. We have every reason to believe the tip came from her.”

“Lorena King,” Gaby echoed, opening her file. “Daughter?”

“Wife,” Waverly corrected, gesturing to the first photo in the envelope. “You’ll find her information there.” The picture depicted a beautiful, red-headed woman in her mid-forties though she looked as if she had been through much more than any woman should. She stood outside a window which read “King’s Flowers” in beautiful, hand-painted lettering. A man stood beside her, Avery King, Gaby mused, holding her upper arm in a tight grip, his face a mask of scars broken only by his small mouth downturned into a vicious snarl.

“A pleasant fellow,” Solo remarked sarcastically, noting the fear in Lorena’s photographed eyes. “Why would she report on her own husband?”

“Their marriage, it seems, has taken a turn for the worst within the past decade. Furthermore, Lorena has never shown any sign of sharing in her husband’s views.”

“How long have you been following them?” Illya inquired, flipping the page to see another photo of Lorena: this time among the flowers in her shop, a wistful smile playing across her face.

“King has been flying under the radar, so to speak, since the end of the war. He dodged conscription but remained in contact with agents inside the Vinciguerra’s network before branching off and starting King Industries which we now believe is a front for, shall we say, more dastardly doings.”

“Did you send an agent in to verify Lorena’s claims?” Gaby asked, already knowing the answer.

“You three wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He paused, making sure all three agents had eyes on him. “King is no longer satisfied simply standing on his soapbox. He’s planning on making a statement, chaps, one that cannot be ignored. Based on the information gathered from Lorena’s phone call and the resulting placement of MI6 agents, we believe King has created a massive, chemical weapon that he intends to use on the Western European nations.”

“Which nations?” Illya closed his file, frowning, and glanced up at his superior.

“That’s just it, Kuryakin. We’re not sure. There’s a dirty bomb planted somewhere in Europe and we have absolutely no idea where it is or when it’s set to go off.”

There was a beat while his agents stared at him in silent horror. “Yes,” he added, noting their expressions. “Not exactly the best of situations, is it?”

Illya leaned forward. “So, we take King hostage and get information out of him.”

“Were it that simple, Kuryakin, I’d have handled it myself. No, there’s simply no guarantee that capturing King and bringing him in for questioning wouldn’t result in one of his inner circle setting the bomb off anyway. Our intel suggests that King’s network has agents spread all across the country and well into Eastern Europe. This is no longer just an MI6 problem. This is the world’s problem. And we need you three to handle it.”

He stood and walked around his desk to rest against the front of it, addressing the original UNCLE team.

“It goes without saying that ‘quickly’ and ‘quietly’ are key here.”

Gaby and Solo closed their files. Waverly nodded at his agents serious demeanors and straightened to retrieve another stack of files from his desk.

“Leslie Davidson, one of the top agents from MI6, has been working these past three months in King Industries. He’s climbed the security ranks starting as a doorman and has succeeded in becoming one of King’s personal bodyguards; it was through him that we learned of the bomb in the first place. King is paranoid and has revealed next to nothing as to the whereabouts of his weapon, but, fortunately for us, has hinted as to the when. Thanks to Davidson, we are now able to narrow our timetable to between one and three months until detonation.”

“Not much of a comfort,” Napoleon mumbled. “What’s the motive?”

“King was originally a benefactor of the Vinciguerras’, hence his in-network connections. It seems he is intent on finishing what they started. Our intelligence suggests King may even have been the one responsible for Dr. Teller’s disappearance.”

A small gasp escaped Gaby’s lips and she shifted, uncomfortable with this turn of events. Illya quickly placed a hand on her knee in silent comfort while Solo cleared his throat and mirrored his Russian partner, gripping her other knee with his free hand. Illya and Solo glanced at each other over Gaby’s head; the former embarrassed and the latter amused at their automatic response. Gaby visibly relaxed and Waverly suppressed a fatherly smile; it comforted him to know that his team had developed such a strong camaraderie in such a short amount of time. Still though, there wasn’t time to linger on such frivolities.

“Now,” Waverly continued, slapping the files against his palm in emphasis, “here is where it gets complicated. While Agent Davidson was dining at King’s estate, per his instruction, he overheard a conversation between King and the head of his security task force, Mata Chavez.” He paused. “Her information is also in your file. She and King were speaking with an unknown male who had top-secret information regarding our, now your, mission.”

Gaby’s eyebrows shot up. “A rogue agent?”

“Now working as a mole in UNCLE.” Waverly smiled grimly as his agents balked. “Yes, no comfort in that either, I’m afraid.”

“What is the plan?” Illya demanded, his left hand tapping a tattoo on his thigh.

“You, Kuryakin, will be introduced to King as Illya Ivanov, a down on his luck defector looking to put his Spetsnaz training to good use.” He handed Illya another file containing his new ID, passport, and information. “Agent Davidson will introduce you to Chavez. If all goes according to plan, she will hire you on as one of King’s bodyguards. You’re to keep your ear to the ground, reporting back to me with any information regarding the bomb.” 

Illya stiffened at the thought of playing a Russian defector but said nothing. This was the easiest way to gain King’s trust.

Waverly turned to Napoleon with another file. “Solo, you will work Lorena King, becoming a regular customer at her shop. Use her marital insecurities to your advantage, gain her trust, and see if she knows anything more about King Industries’ latest project.”

“Finally, Miss Teller.” He turned to Gaby and smiled at her, affectionate, yet professional. “I’ve compiled a list of roughly 20 spies who could have accessed the King files. You and Agent Davidson will work through that list, tracking down each one and looking for any ties to King’s company or estate; hopefully, the mole is unaware of our suspicions and we can take him down before he catches on.”

“God willing,” he added, addressing all three of them now, “we’ll have this done without any sort of international scandal. Understood?” They nodded. “Good. Gentlemen, you’re dismissed. Gaby, Agent Davidson is on his way over now. I’d like you two to get to work straightaway.”

“Yes, sir.”

The three stood up simultaneously. Illya and Napoleon heading for the door and Gaby to the other side of Waverly’s desk.

“Leslie,” Solo scoffed, quietly so only Illya could hear. “What kind of man has a name like _Leslie_?” He reached for the doorknob just as it turned.

“This one, actually.”

The man grinned as he walked into the office without knocking, followed closely by Waverly’s secretary and her protests about him entering unannounced. Illya gave Solo a withering look.

“Davidson, just in time. Not to worry, Beatrice,” Waverly said, waving her off with a smile. “I was just about to call him in.”

Solo allowed Davidson to step around him, pausing only to sheepishly address his quip. “About that--”

“Nothing to worry about,” Leslie assured him, reaching out to shake Napoleon’s hand. “I’m used to that sort of crack from you Americans.” The sentence was harsh, but the twinkle in his eye promised he was kidding. 

He was a tall man, roughly the same height as Solo, with blonde-brown hair, a strikingly prominent British accent, and bright, green eyes that flashed with amusement. Gaby couldn’t help noticing that every inch of him was perfectly muscled. Not unlike Illya, she mused, but quickly dismissed the thought. Davidson seemed to sense Gaby’s gaze and glanced at her over his shoulder, throwing her a wink before turning back to Waverly.

“Davidson, this is Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin, and Gabriella Teller. Your counterparts on the King assignment.” Waverly gestured to each agent in turn.

“A pleasure,” he said, shaking their hands, but lingering a bit on Gaby. “I’ve heard you and I are to be working quite closely together.”

“I’ve heard the same,” she responded, smiling.

“Well,” he raised her hand to his mouth to lightly brush a kiss across her knuckles, “I for one am looking forward to a very fruitful partnership.” Solo covered a bark of laughter with a cough while Illya stiffened, his eyes narrowing.

Waverly, oblivious to the drama unfolding around him, turned to his agents. “Kuryakin, you and Solo should meet Agent Cardon outside headquarters. We’ve arranged temporary apartments for the both of you.”

Solo grimaced at the thought of leaving his chic, upscale loft behind, but brightened a little at the thought of his grumpy, Russian friend living in the same conditions. He clapped a hand on Illya’s back as the two left the office, the door swinging shut behind them.

“Well, comrade,” he said a bit too happily. “Looks like you have some competition.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Illya grumbled, brushing his hair out of his face with one hand, the other shoved deeply into his sweatpants pocket.

“ _You_ might not,” Solo stated, casually strolling past Illya to the elevator, “but _Gaby_ sure does. You could cut the tension back there with a knife.” Illya scoffed, but said nothing, angrily jabbing at the elevator button.  
“One thing’s for sure, though.” Solo paused, waiting for the passengers to exit before stepping inside with his partner. “I wouldn’t want to be the third wheel on their stakeout dates. Leslie looks like he knows one or two ways to fight the winter cold.”

The elevator doors shut on Illya’s irritated response and Solo’s hearty laughter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No matter how many times I thank Diadema for her beta-work, her friendship, and overall love and support, I can guarantee that I will thank her a million times more. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

_Tick, tick, tick, tick_. The clock hands measured the time in a slow, monotonous rhythm as Illya sat in the waiting room of King Industries’ security office. Two days had passed since UNCLE’s mission briefing with Waverly, and Illya had spent the time preparing for his role as a Russian defector. _Illya Ivanov,_ he recited mentally. _Ex-Spetsnaz officer. Defected in 1963._ He glanced at his father’s watch thinking, perhaps, the clock on the wall was wrong. It wasn’t. Illya had been waiting for an interview with Mata Chavez for 45 minutes past their appointed time.

Huffing out an exaggerated sigh, Illya shifted and folded his arms across his chest. A Russian man should never agree to continue a meeting when he’s been forced to wait so long. But, Illya reminded himself, he was no longer Russian. _A defector,_ he repeated inwardly to himself, his fingers tapping against his arm. The thought made him uncomfortable. Oleg already believed Illya’s loyalties were shifting, and it didn’t escape his notice that he had been ‘tainted’ by the extravagances of the West. Soft down comforters, expensive, top-shelf booze, advances in technology far beyond what they had behind the Iron Curtain, it was enough to make anyone rethink their ideas of what was right and wrong, and Illya was no exception. But it wasn’t the material goods that were warping his mind. It was her.

  _Ding_. Illya broke from his reverie and turned to see Leslie Davidson stepping from the elevator into the waiting room.

“Good, Ivanov, you’re already here.”

 Illya stood while Leslie held out a hand, smiling in a friendly yet professional manner. He didn’t smile back.

“Yes, though I believe interview was planned for two o’clock,” Illya commented evenly, his annoyance only evident in the tattoo his fingers drummed against his thigh. “Was I mistaken?”

 “No, no.” Davidson dropped his hand and gestured for Illya to sit as he did the same. “Chavez likes to make people wait, have them sweat it out a little bit. I had a meeting with her downstairs. She should be here any minute.”

 Illya cocked an eyebrow, filing away the latter part of Leslie’s statement. “I fought my way out of KGB’s hands and escaped Soviet Union. I am supposed to fear waiting?”

 “I don’t think any of Chavez’s normal fear tactics will work on you,” Davidson mused, leaning back in his leather chair. “She’s probably looking over your resume one more time, trying to find ways to slip you up.” He glanced at Illya out of the corner of his eye. “You aren’t going to slip up, are you Kuryakin?” The use of his real name made Illya freeze.

 Davidson didn’t seem to realize his mistake or, if he did, didn’t care. Maybe MI6 tactics are different, Illya thought, turning his head to stare at his temporary partner. _KGB would never use real name while undercover, even outside presence of mark. Neither would UNCLE._

 Illya decided against responding and instead let out a noncommittal grunt, sitting back in his chair stiffly. It wasn’t worth an argument now, not while his cover was so new. It wouldn’t be worth it to fight with his only, if not exactly best, ally in the heart of King Industries.

 “So,” Davidson tried again, switching tactics, “tell me about Gabriella.”

 Maybe punching him wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

 Illya paused to take a breath. “She is respected colleague. An effective agent.” His words came out rigidly, firmer than he intended. Leslie made no move to hide his interest which only set Illya’s blood to a slow boil.

 “And her out-of-office activities?”

 Illya shrugged, his fingers beginning to tap against his crossed arms. “I would not know of them.”

 “But is she seeing anyone?” Leslie prompted, leaning forward and bracing his forearms against his knees. “Anyone romantically that is?”

 “Yes,” Illya lied. “Large man. Short temper. You would not want to cross.” He took another deep breath, silently inhaling through his nose, attempting to relax his still drumming hands. He relented, however, allowing the soft tap-tap-tapping of his fingers to continue. It was more appropriate than tightening them around Davidson’s neck.

 “I’ll take my chances,” Leslie replied, sounding very much like Solo in his charismatic nonchalance, though why Illya would react differently to Cowboy’s antics versus this British agent, he wouldn’t admit. It was because he had been handed everything on a platter, Illya thought, grinding his teeth together to stop the biting insults that burned his tongue. He expected the world and was given it; even as a spy, he was able to brush things off as if he hadn’t a care in the world. The dossier Illya had obtained proved that Leslie Davidson, though a stellar agent, was nothing like his handler. While Waverly was smart, kind, and dedicated not just to his agency but to the greater good, Davidson was shallow, of facile intellect, and had a new woman to woo as often as normal people received haircuts. This was why he disliked the man, Illya reasoned. It had nothing to do with his intent to proposition Gaby. Nothing at all.

 An unexpected blessing, the elevator behind the two dinged again, this time opening to reveal a tall, powerful-looking woman whom, based on the way Davidson leaped to his feet, Illya could only reason was Mata Chavez. She was dressed in form-fitting black slacks, the daintiness of her white blouse offset by the leather bomber jacket she wore, and the holster strapped to her hip. Her black hair was pushed back in a sleek pixie cut that had grown out a few inches; a scar stretched across her exposed collarbone and up her neck, disappearing behind her right ear, a white line startlingly bright against her dark chestnut skin.

 “You are Mr. Ivanov?” She asked, ignoring the hand he offered her as he stood to greet his potential employer.

 “Yes.”

 “Good.” She looked him up and down as if to assess whether the interview was worthy of her time. She apparently deemed it so, gesturing for him to follow her and calling over her shoulder, “Davidson. You’ll sit in on this one.” Leslie looked surprised but followed the two nonetheless.

 “Why did—”

 “You will sit in on this interview silently, Davidson. I won’t tell you a second time.”

 Illya suppressed a smirk as Leslie clamped his mouth shut and appeared for all the world a beaten dog.

 Chavez led the way to her office, glancing at Illya’s falsified resume and documents. She cleared her throat and prepared to ask questions, but Illya knew that the interview had already begun.

 

                                                                                          *****

 

Napoleon Solo, alias William Lewis, was perusing King’s Flowers in pursuit of a bouquet for his ailing mother. Due to his absolute, though feigned, lack of knowledge in their meanings, William had asked for the assistance of the shop’s owner, Lorena King. This was the official story. Unofficially, Solo was here to investigate the wife of Avery King who had sent an anonymous tip sent to UNCLE that hinted at the sordid organization behind King Industries latest project.

“And this one?” He asked, pointing to a plant blossoming with delicate, red flowers.

 “Red flowers normally symbolize romantic love and passion,” Lorena began, “but they can also represent respect, courage, or desire.” Solo couldn’t help but notice the adoration in her eyes as she fluffed the petals and turned the pot to give the plant more light. She was a beautiful woman, though, in some regards, appeared older than her 41 years. Soft features gave way to dark bags below her eyes and creases of worry and anxiety swept across her face in troublesome quantity.

 “The flower you’re looking at is a geranium though, so it has a bit of a different meaning.”

 Solo frowned. “A uranium?” He purposefully misheard her, subtly scrutinizing her expression for any recognition of the chemical commonly used in nuclear weapons.

 “Geranium,” Lorena laughed, pulling out a notebook from her apron pocket to gesture to a beautiful pencil drawing of the flower and handwritten notes. “See here? Geraniums come in all different kinds of shapes, heights, and colors. There are almost 500 different species of this flower alone.”

 Solo whistled appreciatively. “You do know quite a bit about flowers.”

 “It’s my passion! Flowers don’t just grow. You have to care for them, nurture them.” She gently took the plant from Solo’s hand, cradling it for a moment before placing it back on the display counter. “The only way they’ll reach their full potential is with love.”

 Napoleon couldn’t help but admire the woman before him. She appeared so at ease, so genuinely happy that it threw him off. This was nothing like the woman he had seen in his case file. This woman was kind, soft-spoken but passionate, good-natured and somehow content. Any stress she may be caused by her husband was lost among the leaves and petals. A floral safe haven.

 “How very much like us,” Napoleon mused, allowing his thoughts to drift but remaining grounded in the present moment.

 “How do you mean, Mr. Lewis?”

 “We can only do so well without a strong support system of family and friends who love us.” He saddened a little, letting his mouth drop into a soft frown. “I don’t know what I’ll do if my mother doesn’t get well. She’s been my biggest supporter since my father died.”

 This seemed to touch Lorena who placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

“She’s very lucky to have a son like you who would come all this way just to see her.”

 Solo looked up at her with inconsolable eyes. “I’m lucky to have her; she means everything to me.” He let his voice trail off, supposedly lost in worry and love for his mother. Napoleon’s relationship with his real mother, who, for all he knew, was still living in his childhood home outside New York City, was a different story altogether. He mentally shrugged that thought away. This wasn’t the time for childishness.

 “When my mother died, I took it very hard,” Lorena began. “She was the last person in this world who truly cared about my wellbeing. Without her, I felt so unloved.”

 “This was before you met your husband then?” Solo asked, probing a little further into her history.

Lorena shook her head, a rueful smile playing about her lips. “No. I had been married six years before she died. This was fifteen years ago.”

 Solo reached up to cover the hand on his shoulder with his own. “I’m sorry,” he said, surprised to find that he truly meant it and that it wasn’t just his cover speaking.

 The two smiled at one another before Lorena blinked, seemingly remembering where she was. She cleared her throat, stepping back from Solo and removing her hand.

 “Well, Mr. Lewis, I’d recommend the peonies. They have long served as a ‘get well soon’ flower, and many people believe they have healing properties.” She gestured to a display to her right and picked one up, handing it to Napoleon.

 “I think she’ll really appreciate these. They’re stunning!” He paused, looking up from the flower to glance at her through his eyelashes. “Just like you.”

 Solo was pleased to see that his words had the desired effect. A slight pink tint crept its way across Lorena’s cheeks as she tried to hide a smile.

 “If you just come up to the front, I’ll ring those up for you.”

 As she turned to the counter, Solo touched her wrist, grasping it between his fingers. Lorena froze, looking over her shoulder him. “Really, Ms. King. Thank you for your help. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

 She made no move to take her hand back, unconsciously pivoting slightly to face the American. “It’s alright,” she whispered, her eyes not leaving their joined hands. “You can call me Lorena.”

 “Lorena,” Solo repeated. He smiled at her, moving to catch her eye. “Thank you. I know my mother will love the flowers.” He released her, pulling out his wallet and retrieving a wad of ten-pound notes, placing them on the counter where Lorena stood.

 “Keep the change.” He winked, and turned to leave, hoping that she’d take the bait.

 “There’s a delivery tomorrow of new wrappings,” Lorena blurted out suddenly. Solo paused, his palm already pressing against the half-open door. “I think they’d look lovely around a bouquet of anemones, and I’m sure your mother would like them.” Her voice trailed off breathlessly, her eyes downcast as if expecting an apology and polite rejection.

 Instead, Solo smiled. “I’ll just have to come back tomorrow then.”

 

                                                                                          ********

 

“This is pointless,” Gaby announced, shivering. She sighed, shifting uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Leslie’s car, holding a pair of thick binoculars to her eyes and peering into the darkness beyond. “I can’t see anything.”

 “That’s because the lights are off.”

 “It’s freezing in here.”

 “It’s winter.”

 Gaby tore the lenses from her face and stared at Leslie, frowning. “Then why don’t you turn the heat on?”

 “We’ve been over this, Teller,” Davidson said, not taking his own binoculars away from their target’s apartment. “If a trained British agent sees a car idling outside his home, he’s bound to become suspicious. The exhaust would give us away. We keep the engine off.”

 Gaby scowled and put her field equipment in her lap, staring out her window towards the street.

“We don’t even know if he’s home.”

 Leslie glanced over at his East German partner and adjusted his posture to face her, lowering his binoculars. “True. Most nights, Agent Henry stays at a bar until midnight or one o’clock. We could be here for a while.”

 “Then what do you suppose we do in the meantime? Stare at his neighbors while we slowly freeze from the inside out?”

 Leslie chuckled. “Well, I don’t know much about you. We can have a chat, get to know one another.”

 Gaby’s eyes flickered to him, her face impassive. “Spies aren’t good at show and tell.”

 “I can start. I started working for Waverly about two years ago. You?”

 “About the same.”

 “And you’ve been with the same partners since?”

 “Yes. We work well together, and unsurprisingly, the boys don’t work well with anyone else.”

 “But you do?”

 Gaby shrugged, slightly annoyed. “As well as anyone.” The cold was making her grumpy and she didn’t like being put on the spot. It was at times like these she missed having Illya on stakeout with her; he didn’t mind the quiet and she always felt safer in his company. Ironic considering his status as a KGB agent and hers as an East German defector.

 She raised her binoculars to her eyes once more. “Looks like the neighbors are going to bed. How long have we been out here anyway?”

 Leslie glanced at his watch. “Three hours.”

 Gaby groaned.

 They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching Agent Henry’s elderly neighbors go about their nightly routine of feeding their cat, closing their blinds, and toddling off to their bedroom.

 “So,” Leslie tried for conversation again, “You and Solo. What’s going on there?”

  _“Entshuldigung?”_ She started forward and gaped at Leslie who grinned unabashedly, the shock of the question making her return to her native tongue.

 “It’s not really any of my business—”

“No. It’s not.”

 “But I couldn’t help wondering…” Leslie let the question sit there, his hands folded and sitting patiently in his lap.

 “Solo is a partner.” She paused, an eyebrow raised. “A friend. He is like an older brother, one who wastes no time in teasing when he can get away with it. It’s a wonder Waverly puts up with him at all.”

 Gaby let her eyebrows settle back on her forehead, and she looked out the window again. Leslie cleared his throat.

 “And you and Kuryakin are…?”

 Gaby bristled. “Again, this is not your business.”

 Leslie waited, not offering an apology. “So, you two aren’t romantically involved.” It wasn’t a question.

 Giving up on any sense of normalcy, she turned her torso to face Leslie. “Why do you need to know?”

 Leslie shrugged, widening the grin that had been plastered across his face. “I like you, Teller. You’re bold and quite attractive and, from the stories I’ve heard, a hell of an agent. I think we’d make a pretty good team.”

 Gaby looked him up and down, her expression emotionless. Suddenly, there was movement on the sidewalk behind the driver’s side of the door.

 “There!” Gaby snatched her binoculars from her lap, glancing through them to confirm what she already knew. “Henry must be back early from the bar. He’s on the move.”

 Without waiting for a response, she opened her door and quickly began running across the street to the apartment building.

 Leslie grinned, clicking his tongue against his teeth before following behind her. “Always an interruption.”

 

                                                                                          ********

 

“So,” Solo started, walking into Illya’s temporary apartment as soon as the door was opened for him and shoved a pot of flowers into the taller man’s arms. “How did everything work out for you, comrade? Any difficulty playing the Russian Defector?”

 Used to Solo’s banter, Illya rolled his eyes to the ceiling and shut the door behind him. “No, please. Do come in.”

 Solo ignored him and sat himself on the lone sofa, crossing his ankles on the decrepit coffee table in the middle of the room. “I wonder how Gaby’s doing,” he mused, eyeing Illya as he placed the peonies next to his feet on the table. “This is her first official mission without us, you know. I suppose we shouldn’t make contact.”

 “Gaby can take care of herself,” Illya reasoned, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he moved to a low armchair in the middle of the living room, sinking into the cushions and folding his arms across his chest. “You should not be making contact with me either.”

 “You checked the room for bugs?”

 “Obviously.”

 Solo spread his hands wide. “Then I don’t think there’s much to worry about, is there?”

 “You are lucky I was able to leave Chavez’s spies behind.”

 “I would expect nothing less of you, Peril.”

 The two fell into companionable silence as Solo brushed microscopic dirt from under his recently-manicured nails, and Illya began tampering with a small mechanical device on the side table next to him.

 “Did Lorena suspect you?” Illya asked after a moment.

 “On the contrary, she all but invited me to her shop again tomorrow.” Solo gestured to the small pot of peonies on the coffee table. “Those are for you, by the way.”

 It was Illya’s turn to snort. “I’m touched.”

 “As you should be. Those cost me a pretty penny, you know. I’m glad this is all on Waverly’s tab.”

 “As if you do not have resources to spare.”

 “True, but I prefer using my funds for more…entertaining purposes.”

 “Yes. Alcohol and women.”

 Solo placed a hand over his heart. “You think I have to _pay_ for a woman’s attention? I’m hurt.”

 Illya began to reply when the device in his hand chirped and sent an electric shock down his hand, causing him to drop it on the carpeted floor and curse.

 Solo raised an eyebrow. “What is it you are trying to accomplish?”

 “Is device for bugs.” Illya brought his hand to his mouth, idly nursing the electric burn he had received on the pad of his thumb. “Originally, it was accurate up to 20 meters. Now, it should be up to 200.”

 “If you can get it to stop shocking you, that is.”

 “Would you like to try?” Illya asked, sarcasm radiating from his form as he glared at his partner.

 “No, thank you. I prefer my hair combed neatly over the eclectic look you’re going for.”

 Illya touched his hand to his hair, scowling when he heard Solo snickering. He had fallen for yet another one of his jokes.

 “I never asked: did you get the job?”

 “Davidson was mistaken. There is no job opening in King’s security taskforce.”

 Solo froze, his eyebrows furrowing at this. “You mean we don’t have an in to King?”

 Illya paused. “No, I did not say that. I was given job. Just not one we were hoping.”

 “And that job is…?”

 Illya shifted in his seat, clearly anticipating Solo’s reaction. “I have been assigned as…doorman for King Industries.”

 Solo didn’t move for a few beats, then began to laugh hard enough that tears streamed down his face.

 “You mean…?” Solo leaned back into the couch, gasping for air. “Do you have one of those little hats? Did they give you white gloves so you could hold open the door for haughty fascists?” He laughed again, throwing his arm out in front of him, miming Doorman-Illya.

 “This is not bad thing,” Illya insisted, rising out of his chair and tapping his fingers against his still-crossed arms before grabbing his coat and flat cap from a hook next to the door. “No one suspects a doorman of anything, and I have security clearance to most of building.”

 “But you have a uniform, right? Tell me you have to wear a little waistcoat.”

 Illya rolled his eyes, shoving his arms forcefully through his coat sleeves. “I do not have time for this, and you should not be here.”

 Solo stood obligingly, still wiping tears from his cheeks. “Maybe Waverly will get security footage, and we can frame it. Gaby will love it.”

 “Time to go,” Illya insisted, pulling his cap over his head and pushing Solo’s shoulders which were still shaking with poorly held laughter out of his doorway.

“Where are we going?”

“Out.” He answered stiffly and shut the door behind them.

 

                                                                               ********

 

Gaby and Leslie watched from behind the building as Agent Henry and an unknown man made their way up the steps of his apartment building, stomping their feet against the chill.

 “Do you know who that is?” Gaby whispered, her breath fanning around her and crystallizing in the cold, night air.

 “No. I’ve never seen him before. He’s not an agent.”

 “Do you think he works for King?”

 “It’s possible. I haven’t seen him around the office, but if Henry is selling secrets to this guy then he’s definitely one of the higher-ups.”

 “Only one way to find out,” Gaby mused, slipping around the corner and racing silently up the steps to tail the two men who had disappeared inside.

 “Hang on,” Leslie whispered, following after her and rummaging in his pocket. “Let me get a pick, the door is going to be—”

 He froze, glancing up at Gaby in confusion as she stood in the doorway, holding the door open impatiently for the British agent. “How did you…?”

 Gaby held up a small, metal object, a grin crossing her face. “Nail file. Who says beauty is a wasted hobby? Now, come on.”

Leslie shook his head, a huff of appreciative laughter escaping him before glancing around them once more and slipping inside.

 

                                                                                  ********

 

“You put a tracker on Gaby’s car?” Solo asked from the passenger seat, eyeing the blinking, red dot on the reader’s screen that was placed in Illya’s lap. The Russian glanced down at it before executing a quick and mildly impressive turn down a side street as they neared the dot’s location.

 “No. Gaby wears tracker as precaution.”

 “She _wears_ one?” Solo seized the grab-handle above him as Illya took another turn at an alarming speed.

 “In ring. From Rome. She carries it on chain around her neck.” If Solo didn’t know any better, it sounded almost as if the Russian were embarrassed. He’d have to remember this detail to tease the two of them with later.

“Who knew our little mechanic was so sentimental?” he mused, mostly to himself. “I thought you said Gaby can take care of herself?”

“She can. We are not making contact, just checking in.” He lied unconvincingly.

“I see.”

Illya leaned forward over the steering wheel and slowed down, glancing up and down the abandoned street.

 “There!” Solo pointed out the window to where Gaby’s car was parallel parked away from any street lights. Illya slowly inched his own vehicle behind it, shutting off the engine and grabbing his doctored bug device.

 “So, that’s why you wanted it to read further. So we could hear Gaby while she’s on her mission.” Illya nodded absently, fiddling with the dials until the static changed to a familiar voice.

  _“Leslie, behind you!”_

 Solo and Illya exchanged an anxious glance at the indication that Gaby’s first mission without her boys wasn’t going exactly as planned. Before Solo could fully comprehend the grunts of exertion and cries of pain, Illya was out of the car and halfway up the stairs to the apartment building.

 “Oh _shit!”_ Solo mumbled, racing after his partner and hoping against hope that whatever they found up there wasn’t what it sounded like.

 

                                                                                      ******

 

“Leslie,” Gaby croaked, her hands pulling desperately at the fingers wrapped around her throat. “Behind you!”

 Davidson turned from Gaby and Henry just in time to catch what appeared to be an electric toaster with his face. Despite their best efforts, Henry—who was an UNCLE agent after all—had sensed his tails and, without bothering to ask questions, ambushed them as soon as the agents had reached his front door.

 Henry had gone for Gaby as she was the first he encountered, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her inside the apartment only to slam her against the ground and knock the wind from her lungs. The man Henry was with had followed suit, grabbing Leslie. Though, this time around, the element of surprise was mostly gone as Leslie fought back, using the man’s weight against him to wrap an arm around him and execute a perfect judo flip. Gaby had regained her bearings and rolled over just in time to miss a lamp that was thrown at her torso. She leaped to her feet, cursing her lack of hand-to-hand combat training as she ducked and swerved away from Henry’s flying fists.

 It was all for naught though as she stumbled backward over a low table, losing her concentration for a split second—just long enough for Henry to land a punch. She grunted in pain, stars swirling before her eyes, and it was a moment before she realized Henry had his fists locked around her neck. Leslie, however, had noticed, and after smashing a heavy dictionary against the other man’s skull, ran for Henry and attempted to pry him away from her.

 This was when the other man had thrown the toaster.

 Leslie fell hard but managed to wrap his arms around the accomplice’s legs and yank him down with him just as the front door of the apartment was kicked down, splinters flying. Two hundred pounds of pure Russian muscle flew into the room leaving a hurricane in his wake.

 Gaby started to lose consciousness when suddenly Henry’s hands, in fact, his entire body, disappeared from her shrinking view. She rolled over, coughing and gasping, the ringing in her ears replaced with the sounds of a fight far larger than before.

 “Illya,” Gaby wheezed, sitting up, her voice barely perceptible in the cacophony that surrounded them. “Illya, _stop!”_

 Solo, who had been close on Illya’s heels, was able to separate the two before Henry’s ribs broke under the pressure of blow after blow. Leslie was able to knock out the unknown assailant and staggered to lean against the wall nearby, pinching his nose against the river of blood streaming down his face.

Illya was still seeing red and shoved Solo off him but didn’t move to attack Henry again. The man in question was gasping, scurrying backward on his forearms to move as far away as possible from the embodiment of righteous fury.

 “What the hell _happened_ here?” Solo asked, his voice rough with exertion as he stood up straight and eyed the shards of shattered lamps, broken furniture, and the remains of a toaster strewn across the living room.

 “What _happened?”_ Gaby, whose own voice was hoarse but no less filled with anger, stood shakily to her feet, shoving aside the calloused Russian hands that reached for her and glaring at her two partners. “Just _what_ do you think you are _doing_ here?”

 “Saving your life,” Illya huffed, his chest rising and falling in quick succession, his eyes roving up and down Gaby’s form, mentally taking stock of her many injuries.

 “Saving my _life?”_ Gaby repeated incredulously, so angry she was at a loss for words.

There was a pregnant pause as all the agents looked at one another.

“Who _are_ you people?!” Henry rasped, still half-laying on the floor. Everyone ignored him.

Solo stepped forward then, hands raised in submission.

 “If I may—” He was stopped in his tracks as Gaby whirled on him.

 “How _dare_ you?” Her voice had reached a level of quietness that was absolutely terrifying as she glared back and forth between the two, chest heaving, her entire body vibrating with unchecked aggression. “You didn’t trust me enough to handle this on my own, so you spied on me?”

 “In all fairness, Gabs,” Solo tried again, “That _is_ the job description.” His normally tension-reducing humor only served to anger Gaby further.

 “You’re agents?” Henry moved to stand, glancing at the four intruders hesitantly. “Who do you work for?” He eyed Illya warily, fully aware that he was staring at the Soviets’ Golden Boy.

 “The same organization you work for,” Leslie said. He had wisely stayed silent during UNCLE’s exchange and stepped forward now to address Henry. “Though I believe we’ve made a mistake.” He gestured to the man passed out on the floor. “This is your boyfriend, I presume?”

 Henry colored, spluttering out half-phrased excuses before Leslie raised a hand. “A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will do. There is no judgment here.” Still red, Henry hesitated, glancing between all the agents, and then stiffly nodded.

 “What has that to do with anything?” Illya hissed, jaw clenched, and hands balled into fists as he tried to reign in the Mist.

 “This was the secret Henry was keeping. That’s why he was acting so strangely, dodging assignments and leaving work early. Am I right?”

 Again, Henry nodded.

 Gaby, still too angry to address either Solo or Illya, turned to Henry instead. “Then why did you attack us?”

 “I thought you were private investigators,” Henry admitted. “My wife… she’s been getting more and more suspicious lately, and I thought…”

 She cut him off with a scoff. “You would kill us?”

 Henry paled. “No! Never kill you! I thought I could scare you off… keep you from coming back… keep my wife from sending any more…”

 “But their training threw you off,” Solo finished, “and it was fight to win after that.” Henry didn’t reply, but sorrowful agreement was written over his face.

 “I think we’re done here,” Leslie stated, turning from Henry to face Gaby. “Can you walk?” She nodded tersely. “Henry,” he said, addressing the fellow agent now. “You need to see Waverly tomorrow morning. Come clean about this.”

 “But—”

 “He’s more liberal-minded than you’d think, and trust me, being gay is a lot less damning than what you were accused of.”

 Henry’s mouth snapped shut and, if possible, he seemed almost paler. He risked a jerk of his head in acquiescence.

 “Gaby?” Leslie held out a hand in wordless offering. She took it, being sure to bump hard into Illya’s shoulder, not bothering to address her partners further as Davidson helped her over the broken glass and led her out the door.

 Napoleon looked first at Illya, then at Henry who had moved to seat himself next to his unconscious boyfriend. The man wasn’t seriously injured, Solo surmised, but dazed from the sudden intensity of a fight.

 “Peril? We should go.”

 Illya had been staring at the doorway that Gaby had recently vacated. He tore his gaze away to glance at his partner then nodded, striding through the broken vestibule and down the stairs to the relative comfort of the winter night. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the leads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shout-out to our Darling Den Mother who beta's my stories...and also my life <3

“Let’s just go over this one more time, shall we?” Waverly looked between Leslie and Gaby who were seated in his office. “You narrowed down your list to how many agents?”

“Four, sir,” Leslie answered, hands folded in his lap.

“I see. And Agent Henry was one of these four?”

“Yes, sir,” Gaby replied from her seat next to Leslie. She had called Waverly shortly following their fight with Henry to report in, her heart still racing, and her eyes still lit with fire after Illya and Solo’s impromptu babysitting intervention. She had yelled at her superior then, convinced he had sent her teammates after her and didn’t trust her enough to handle a mission on her own. Waverly, ever graceful, had allowed her to vent before calmly explaining that the agents were acting of their own accord. Now, Gaby felt sheepish for having reacted the way she did and found it hard to look into her commander and friend’s eyes.

“I had a very interesting conversation with him this morning,” Waverly said, his face showing no emotion outside of polite indifference. “I trust you two had a hand in this?”

“With all due respect, sir, I thought it might be better—” Waverly raised his hand, cutting Leslie off mid-sentence.

“I can put the pieces together, thank you, Davidson.” Waverly sat back in his chair with a sigh and shifted a few papers on his desk before clearing his throat to continue.

“Your list has been narrowed down further, chaps, though I can’t say I’m happy as to how this came about. Agent Henderson’s body was found on the banks of the San Juan river early this morning.” Both Gaby and Leslie looked at each other and then at Waverly. He nodded sadly. “Given the time of death, Henderson can’t have been the man Davidson overheard in King’s study.”

“That gives us two more agents to track down,” Leslie noted, bringing a hand up to brush his sandy-blond hair out of his eyes. Gaby eyed him subtly, noticing not for the first time that Davidson was, for all intents and purposes, a very attractive man. And he had made advances towards her, she thought, allowing her mind to wander slightly from the task at hand. _It’s not as if anyone_ else _has shown any interest_ . Was there any harm in indulging? Gaby blinked hurriedly, bringing herself back to the present. _Yes_ , she thought, _there was_. Even though she was still angry with Illya, she wouldn’t do that to him. Though that wouldn’t stop her from engaging in a

good flirt now and again if Illya were around. Maybe it would nudge him enough to finally—

“Did you have any thoughts on this, Miss Teller?” Waverly asked, making her jump.

“I’m sorry. What?”

“Training,” Leslie explained, raising an eyebrow when he noticed the blush creeping across her face. “Getting a few hand-to-hand combat lessons in before we track down the remaining suspects.”

“Oh.” Gaby paused, turning to her superior. “I didn’t think a getaway driver really needed any training of that nature.”

“Well,” Waverly began, “Given your, shall we say, _adventure_ last night, I wouldn’t be opposed to having you know how to defend yourself when you don’t have your bodyguard around.”

Gaby’s jaw slackened slightly but quickly turned into a small smile when she noticed the twinkle in Waverly’s eyes. He was teasing her. All was forgiven.

“Do we have a trainer?” she asked. She couldn’t stop the small flutter of her heart when she remembered that the agency’s usual trainer had been on maternity leave for the past few weeks, and Illya had graciously filled in.

“I can send for—”

“I can train her, sir,” Leslie spoke up, a grin stretching his face. “That is if there is no objection?” He winked at Gaby. She rolled her eyes in response but smiled in spite of herself.

“Very well,” Waverly allowed, his eyes searching Gaby for some outward sign of hesitation. “That will keep us from having to call Kuryakin in from his doorman duties.”

“His _what?”_ Gaby choked on a laugh, clearing her throat when Waverly and Leslie both looked at her curiously.

“It seems our favorite Russian agent has gotten himself a job as King Industries’ latest porter and door holder,” Waverly explained. The only evidence of his contained mirth was in the slight quiver of his voice. He exchanged a knowing glance with Gaby before standing and clasping his hands behind his back.

“I trust you two can handle everything from here?”

“Yes, sir,” Leslie answered for the both of them, eyeing Gaby’s pressed together lips as he, too, fought back a chuckle at the mental image of Doorman Illya.

“Good. You’re dismissed.”

The two agents stood and headed towards the exit before Gaby sobered and stopped short.

“You go. I’ll meet you in the training room.” Leslie hesitated but said nothing and nodded, closing the door to the office behind him.

“Sir,” Gaby started, turning to face Waverly who was leaning over the far side of his desk and ripping off the page in his small calendar from the day before. “Do you have a moment?”

“For you, Miss Teller?” Waverly threw the discarded date into the wastebasket before seating himself on the small divan Leslie had just vacated. “Always. Please,” he gestured to the empty spot next to him and Gaby sat down.

“What’s going to happen to Agent Henry?”

Waverly’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t quite understand what you mean. Where is he going to be assigned next?”

“No, I mean,” she paused, taking a breath. “Is he still with UNCLE? There aren’t any repercussions?”

There was a brief moment of silence before Waverly spoke.

“Gaby.” Her first name in the mouth of her employer startled her. “I would have thought you of all people would know me better than that,” he chastised gently, a fatherly smile touching the corners of his lips.

“Agent Henry has done nothing wrong either in the eyes of this agency, nor, if I may be so bold, even in the eyes of God himself.” Gaby raised her eyebrows at this, seeing an entirely different side of her superior. He leaned forward, placing a hand on her knee and squeezing lightly. “Gerald Henry is not the first person to have walked through these doors hiding a supposedly shameful secret, and I am sure he will not be the last.”

“Whether one loves someone of the same gender,” he continued, “another religion, or—” he gave her a knowing look, “—even a fellow agent, UNCLE is a place where we work towards understanding and peace on a global level. It would be hypocritical of me to limit our tolerance of love here.”

Waverly smiled at her, patting her leg and standing up. “I do hope you’ll keep that in mind going forward.” He paused again, glancing at her with a twinkle in his eyes. “My late wife was an agent for MI5 when I had been recruited.” He turned a small picture on his desk to show a younger-looking Waverly laughing alongside a smiling, dark-haired woman. “That’s how we met, you know, though it took me over a year and a half to admit my true feelings. My handler didn’t approve of our relationship, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.” His expression turned to one of awareness far beyond what Gaby had given him credit for as he winked at her over his shoulder. “I’ve long been a hopeless romantic for a forbidden love affair. Though I’m sure _you,_ Miss Teller, are all too familiar with the concept.”

Gaby was too shocked to do anything but nod.

“Did you have any further questions?” A shake of her head, her mouth still too slack to form comprehensive sentences.

“Very well. Then I believe Agent Davidson is waiting for you downstairs.”

                                                                                     

    ********

 

“I thought you were going to stand me up,” a sing-song voice said from deep inside King’s Flowers. Solo grinned, making his way around rows and rows of tulips and roses before finding Lorena seated crisscross in front of a display of anemones, her hair pinned on top of her head in a messy bun with a pencil, and a small smile lighting her features as she looked up at him.

“Hi,” she said, self-consciously dabbing at the sweat along her forehead with a rag.

“Hi,” Solo answered, trying not to laugh at the fresh dirt she had inadvertently smudged above her eyebrows. He pulled a handkerchief from his pants pocket, opening it and leaning towards her. “May I?”

She nodded, allowing the American to brush the cloth gently around her hairline before accepting his outstretched hand and standing.

“You have a lovely complexion, Ms. King.”

“When it’s not covered in dirt, you mean, Mr. Lewis.”

“Even then,” he allowed, noticing the blush that tinted her cheeks and the way she glanced away, embarrassed yet pleased.

“So, I take it you’re here for these?” Lorena gestured to the flowers she had been tending to.  “They’re even prettier with the wrappings than I thought they would be.”

“I wouldn’t mind another bouquet for my mother. She appreciated the flowers so much yesterday.”

Lorena leaned over to pick up the potted plant. She glanced at Solo over her shoulder as she walked towards the wrapping station. “How is she doing?”

Solo followed after her, a sad shrug lifting his shoulders as he watched her work. “Better, but not as well as one would hope.”

Lorena paused, her eyebrows furrowing and her scissors hovering above a delicate black and white-patterned flower paper. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?” Her cheeks turned bright red at this, and she ducked her head down. “I mean, I’m not a doctor, so there isn’t really anything that I _can_ do, but…” she trailed off, clearing her throat. “But if there’s anything I can do to help _you_ through this, then…well, I’m around, is all.”

Solo couldn’t help but notice how genuine she was in her attempts at comfort. She was such a strong woman; she had known him just over a day and already was invested in his emotional wellbeing. It surprised him and, though he didn’t want to admit it, made him admire her a little bit more.

“I appreciate it, Ms. King. You’re very kind.” She looked up and pointed at him with her scissors.

“Lorena. It’s Lorena, Mr. Lewis.”

“And it’s William, Ms. King.”

The two grinned at one another before Lorena deftly tied a bright, white ribbon around the potted flowers and pushed them across the counter.

“There! What do you think?”

“You were right about the wrappings!” Solo admired the soft, red petals and the contrast of the stark paper. He tugged at the ribbon absently. “Nice knotwork, too.”

“Practice makes perfect.” Lorena hummed. She rolled up the rest of the flower paper and put her scissors away before leaning against the counter, chin in hand.

“Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Lewis?”

Solo pursed his lips, pretending to think about it as he cupped his own hand around his chin. “Hmm…what time do you close tonight?”

“5:00.”

“On the dot?”

“Usually. Though yesterday, some man came in here and kept me a bit later, but I didn’t mind.” Her eyes twinkled as she referred to Solo’s past visit. He grinned.

“If you have no objections, Ms. King, I would like to keep you a bit past your closing time again tonight.”

“Oh?” Lorena’s eyebrows shot up. “What for?”

He leaned against the counter, the distance between them shrinking ever so slightly. He couldn’t help noticing when Lorena didn’t pull back. “I was hoping I could take you for a drink this evening.”

“A drink?”

“Yes. You know, maybe one with bubbles or perhaps one of those little paper umbrellas they put in the fancier ones.” Lorena giggled. She considered him, eyes hovering over his lips before returning to his own.

“You know I’m married, Mr. Lewis.” Her voice took on a softer quality, and the smile disappeared from her lips. “I can’t be seen out with strange men.”

“Am I so strange?” Lorena’s lips turned upward, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s not be seen then. Just one drink,” he pleaded and found to his surprise that it wasn’t just the mission that made him hope for a positive answer. He wanted to take her out on the town, show her a good time, have her enjoy herself in the company of a man who would shower her with attention. Forget about her abusive husband, if only for a small moment.

“I…” he could see the debate she was having with herself as she toyed with the pencil in her hair, idle curls falling around her face.

“I shouldn’t,” she whispered, glancing out the window and around the shop as if someone would overhear them. “But…I will. Yes.” She smiled at him, her blush returning. “One drink.”

Solo smiled in answer and took her hand in his, placing a chaste kiss along her knuckles. “I look forward to it.”

                                                                                     

    ********

 

“Try it again,” Leslie called to Gaby, eyeing the way her hips moved as they circled around each other. They had been sparring for a little over an hour, and she had shown significant improvement. _But_ she had yet to take him down.

Gaby grinned wickedly, shoving her sweaty bangs from her forehead and looking at her equally sweaty companion. This was round 12, and Gaby was sure she had figured out the perfect counter move that would get Leslie on the ground once and for all. A sharp whistle sounded, courtesy of the timer attached to speakers in the corner of the room, and Gaby ran at him, quickly sidestepping his outstretched arm and jabbed at his throat; too slow. In an instant, Leslie’s fingers were wrapped around her wrist, pinning her facedown on the mat, her hand awkwardly held above her shoulder blades.

“Ow,” Gaby muttered, closing her eyes in defeat. Leslie paused before letting her up, allowing for a little more contact than was necessary.

“Perhaps a break is in order?” he asked, offering her a hand as she moved to stand up. Gaby ignored it, eyeing the flush of her cheeks in the mirror that lined the far wall. This was due, she was certain, to embarrassment at her defeat rather than anything else. It wasn’t due at all to the fact that she knew he was egging her on purpose and using every excuse to touch her. Or that there was a part of her that really didn’t mind.

“We’re not done yet,” Gaby protested, hands on her hips. “We have this training space until 3 o’clock, and it’s barely two now.”

“While I’m all for the enthusiasm, Gaby,” Leslie began, “I don’t think you should push yourself too hard. Take a break, recharge a little. We can come back to this later.”

Gaby huffed out a scoff, wiping the sweat from her brow. “You don’t think I can handle this?”

Leslie walked towards the mirror. He bent down to retrieve his water bottle and a towel which he draped lightly around his shoulders. “No, of course not.” He took a long swig of water before setting the bottle back down and facing her. “Part of fighting is knowing when to concede.”

Gaby’s gasp echoed around the room and Leslie knew he had made an egregious error. “’Knowing when to concede?’” she repeated, eyes wide in disbelief and anger. “I am _not_ conceding!”

“No, you’re right.” Leslie allowed, moving to invade her personal space and stare down at her. She didn’t back down. “You’re just being stubborn.”

“Why is it that you refuse to let me fight? I can take care of myself!”

“Clearly. You’ve done very well losing three rounds in a row.” A grin stretched across his face as Gaby’s irritation grew, her cheeks growing hot and her blood beginning to boil.

“I don’t see what the issue is. We fought, you lost, we can try again later.” Leslie shrugged an annoying, little shrug, turning away from the small German. “You can’t win the way you’re fighting. There’s no use in continuing.”

_Thwump._ It was the sound more than the sensation that made Leslie pause. He raised an eyebrow at Gaby who, he surmised, had run out of retorts and settled instead for throwing her half-full water bottle at him. Her aim was true, as she hit him square between the shoulder blades, but given the lack of further projectiles, Leslie ignored her and turned away again, heading towards the door to the men’s locker room. A mistake, as it turned out.

Full of anger and righteous indignation, Gaby hurled herself at the unsuspecting Brit, wrapping arms and legs around him and punching relentlessly at the soft tissue between his ribs—a vulnerable spot on any person. Leslie grunted, more in surprise than pain since he had spent years building up a wall of muscle to protect his midsection. He was taken aback and stumbled a few paces before regaining his composure. He executed a rolled dive on the floor that would have made any boxer jealous and effectively dislodged his attacker.

Gaby was relentless, throwing herself yet again at her partner, not waiting for him to fully stand, and jabbed him repeatedly in the gut with her elbows and fists, swiping her heel into the back of his leg and bringing Leslie to his knees. Though the wind was knocked out of him, Leslie made quick work of Gaby yet again, pitching himself forward and using his own weight to his advantage, crushing her underneath him and then staggering to stand. He towered above her, arms raised in defense of her next onslaught. Gaby’s eyes were alight with anger as she went for his knees again, using Leslie’s defensive stance to her advantage and grabbing his forearm, hurling her full weight into his right kneecap. She would have been successful too had Leslie not seen her split-second hesitation and blocked her with his free arm. He reversed her move and slammed her into the mat, one arm braced against her collarbone to keep her from attacking again, the other holding himself above her, knees on either side of her hips.

Gaby glared at him, her chest heaving with exertion. She couldn’t help noticing the way he looked at her as her breasts brushed against him with every inhale.

“Compromising position, Teller,” he mused, eyebrow raised as he took in her scowl. “I thought I’d get you underneath me eventually. I just hoped there’d be a lot less clothing.”

She was used to this kind of banter from Solo, whom she knew didn’t truly mean it, but coming from Leslie who was, as Gaby noted yet again, a very strong and very handsome man, it was wildly disconcerting. She didn’t like the way he grinned at her, and she didn’t like his attitude. Gaby narrowed her eyes, more in thought than anything else. She could very easily incapacitate him, but she wasn’t sure if it would be considered fair play.

“Do I get a victory kiss at least?”

She shrugged. Fair or not, it hardly mattered anyway. Without missing a beat, Gaby kneed the man hard between the legs and shoved him off her, rolling to her feet and standing over him, her hands on her hips. Leslie groaned in pain, clutching both hands to his crotch, and huffing out a laugh.

“Guess I deserve that,” he wheezed.

“I think a break is in order,” Gaby tutted, grinning. “After all, part of fighting is knowing when to concede.” And with that, she strode out of the training room, allowing the door to the women’s locker room to click shut behind her.

                                                                                        

********

 

Illya was bored. Bored didn’t even cover how he was feeling, he thought to himself, idly glancing at his watch for the time. _Half past four,_ he mused, holding the door open for a man and woman who were entering the office building. _A full day with nothing to report._ Illya sighed heavily and tugged at his uniform’s waistcoat with white-gloved fingers. He felt ridiculous and was glad neither Gaby nor Cowboy was nearby to see him.

_Gaby_ . Illya stiffened and shifted his weight from one foot to another. She was probably still angry with him, and rightly so. He hadn’t meant to intervene, but when he heard her grunts of pain from her bugged ring, the Mist had taken over and he’d acted on instinct. Someone had been attacking his woman. He couldn’t stand by and not do anything. Illya huffed out a breath, straightening the cap on his head. _His woman,_ he thought again, rolling his eyes. As if he had any right to her, as if _anyone_ could take ownership of such a beautiful spitfire of an agent.

 

He doubted very much that Gaby would even grace him with a glare should he see her before the mission was done. After last night’s debacle, he wouldn’t be surprised if she ignored him completely. Solo would be able to charm himself back into her good list, Illya was certain, but no matter how hard he tried, he always seemed to do something wrong when it came to Gaby. Maybe it was the way her dark eyes seemed to pierce through whatever walls he put up, or maybe it was the way her laugh sent his heart into overdrive, but Illya knew ever since the small, German mechanic had taken his large hands into her softly-calloused ones and led him in a drunken dance in Rome, he had been wrapped around her little finger.

_Crash!_ Illya jumped, pulled out of his midday meditation when the sound of breaking glass and screams came from inside. Without a second’s hesitation, Illya ran through the door, crouching behind a security desk to see what was going on.

The couple he had let into the building were now brandishing handguns and instructing all who were nearby in a Southern-American twang to get onto the floor and keep their heads down. Two more men appeared from the restrooms carrying large firearms, seemingly in league with the Bonnie and Clyde impersonators. Illya looked to the welcome desk and noticed with a grunt of frustration that the only other member of King Industries’ security on this floor had his hands raised in the air and was giving up his gun without a fuss. Illya seemed to be the only one who wasn’t cowering in fear, but he was also without a weapon of his own. This wasn’t too much of a problem. He had taken down more than four assailants before with nothing but his fists and a crowbar, but Illya hesitated for a moment, wondering who these people were. They weren’t agents that he knew of—too sloppy. To any onlooker, they appeared to be run of the mill thieves. Though why they would target a gardening corporation, he had no idea. His job wasn’t to ask questions, however, and thankfully, these thieves presented him with a wonderful opportunity to prove that he could do more than just hold open doors.

Noiselessly, Illya crept along the length of the security desk, crouching low and peering around the corner. The couple was busy patting down people and taking whatever valuables they could find. One man was near the door, keeping watch no doubt, and the other was minding the perimeter, keeping his eyes peeled for any attempt at heroism. Unfortunately for him, he was unaware that he was walking right towards Illya’s hiding spot. Timing his moves perfectly, Illya bolted from his position and quickly knocked the patrolling guard unconscious with his own weapon. It would have been more effective to use The Kiss, but he couldn’t risk King’s security task force nor Mata knowing the origin of such a move.

Illya caught the guard before he hit the ground, silently moving him behind the security desk and out of sight. He stripped his gloves off his hands as well as his cap and waistcoat, thankful for the black turtleneck he wore underneath as it matched the thieves’ gear almost perfectly and blended in with the dark marble flooring. Illya inspected the gun in his hands and realized with a start that it wasn’t loaded. Were all the attackers holding useless weapons? Well, not exactly useless, he thought to himself as he eyed the unconscious form of Thief Number One. It could still do quite a bit of damage. He didn’t want to risk the civilians should the others be using live weapons so Illya carefully made his way to the welcome desk, ducking behind pillars and the occasional trash can or statue to hide his movements.

“Got anythin’?” Bonnie asked Clyde, sneering at the security guard who was lying on the floor.

“Nothin’ yet,” Clyde answered, ripping a pearl bracelet from the wrist of a whimpering older woman. “Just a few jewels here and there, nothin’ of value.”

“You’d think big shots in this kinda place would carry around a lot more cash,” Bonnie mused, leaning down to examine a wedding ring on the hand of a flushed and rather overweight man.

“Ooh, I might have somethin’ here!” she exclaimed, yanking the man’s hand towards her to look at the diamond-encrusted band. “This looks like it could be worth a pretty penny.”

Illya continued moving and took down Thief Number Two before dragging the unconscious man behind the security desk with the first. He was amazed Bonnie and Clyde hadn’t yet realized their lack of backup.

“P-please,” the man stuttered, clearly terrified of the gun Clyde was gesturing with as he meandered over to Bonnie who was still clutching his wrist between her manicured fingers. “I have a family.”

“Boo-hoo, so what? We’re supposed’ta care?” Clyde asked. “Hey,” he turned to glance at Bonnie. “I think you were right about this one!” Gleefully, he grabbed the ring and pulled on it, attempting to inspect it further. However, the man must have been several sizes smaller when he had gotten married and the band refused to budge.

“Th’a hell?” Bonnie asked, leaning closer. “It’s stuck.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Clyde grunted, pulling on the ring once more and ignoring the cry of pain from the ring’s owner.

“We can’t just leave it,” Bonnie complained, putting the hand that wasn’t holding her gun on her hip. “This is worth more than all th’a others combined.”

Illya watched the couple warily as he glided silently across the room, moving closer and closer to the couple who were oblivious to his presence.

“I got just th’a thing,” Clyde announced, and to Illya’s horror, he pulled a large hunting knife from a holster hidden inside his jacket. “We’ll just take th’a whole hand.” Bonnie laughed at this, clapping her partner on the shoulder and holding the now screaming man’s hand tightly in her own.

“Stay still!” she commanded, kicking the man in the stomach. “This’ll only hurt a lot!”

Illya didn’t waste another moment. Before either Bonnie or Clyde could react, Illya lunged at them, hitting Clyde hard over the head with Thief Number One’s weapon and throwing him into Bonnie who screeched and dropped her own weapon to raise her hands in front of her face. It did her no good, however, as her partner careened into her, dropping his knife, and the two went down, Illya close behind. He slammed his full weight into Clyde’s side and used his momentum to knock the wind out of Bonnie. While the two where wheezing on the floor with Illya pinning them down, he turned to the Wedding Band Man.

“Your tie, sir.”

The man, still shaking and clutching his hand to his chest, stared at Illya. “W-what?”

Illya was holding Bonnie and Clyde’s wrists behind their backs in his hands, and he tilted his head in their direction before looking at the man. “Your tie. I wish to borrow it.”

“Oh.” The man undid the knot at his throat and crawled over to Illya who seemed to be exerting no effort in holding the pair down.

“If you would be so kind.” The man nodded and wrapped his tie around the pair’s wrists, fixing a knot and allowing Illya to tighten it deftly.

“Thank you,” Illya said, picking up Bonnie and Clyde’s dropped weapons and examining them. They, too, were empty.

It was then the sound of applause filed Illya’s ears. Puzzled, he turned from his spot kneeling on Clyde’s back to see Mata Chavez walking towards him clapping slowly with Avery King behind her.

“Well done, Ivanov. Even Davidson didn’t take down all the thieves, and he only had three to worry about,” she said, looking around at the frightened staff members who, Illya noticed, didn’t seem so frightened anymore. “Thank you, everyone. You’re dismissed.” Men and women alike got to their feet and returned to their previous workstations, chatting animatedly about their performance.

Illya glanced first at Chavez and then at King. “I do not understand. This was test?”

“Yes,” King answered, his voice a deep baritone that seemed to invade the space between them. “All potential applicants for my taskforce must first complete an interview with Chavez here, as well as an in-field examination. I had high hopes for you, Ivanov,” he continued, clapping a hand on his shoulder and pulling Illya to a standing position. “I’m glad you didn’t disappoint.”

“Come,” he gestured for Illya to follow him as he turned his back and plodded towards the elevator. “We have much to discuss, you and I.”


End file.
